


For Her

by DashFnanz



Series: This World is Hallowed [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Severus Snape, But also, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gangs, Hot Chocolate, Organized Crime, POV Severus Snape, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28333221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DashFnanz/pseuds/DashFnanz
Summary: She's a light in the sand for him—there aren't many truths in life he holds to certainty, but he knows that he loves her. She's his beauty, his mind, his freedom, and if he cannot do this for himself, he must do this for her.Severus/Hermione; Gang!AU. For Lyrrie.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Series: This World is Hallowed [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986538
Kudos: 10





	For Her

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Herochick007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herochick007/gifts).



> To all those celebrating, happy holidays to you! And a very happy new year! Here's to 2021, and all the hope and possibility it brings :D
> 
> This fic is written especially for Lyrrie [(Herochick007)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herochick007/pseuds/Herochick007), for a gift-fic challenge on the Hogwarts forum. Lyrrie, you've had a tough few months lately but you're still so, so strong, and I admire you for that. I hope you like this piece, and I hope even more that I didn't mess up your favourite pairing. *grimaces* Happy holidays, and I wish you the best. Enjoy!
> 
> Huge thank you to Bex [(DobbyRocksSocks)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DobbyRocksSocks/pseuds/DobbyRocksSocks) and Ana [(emryses)](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5406340/emryses), my betas and friends and large parts of my wonderful support system. You guys are the bestest of the best, and I adore you both for indulging me and my madness.
> 
> Disclaimer: J.K Rowling is _not_ a goddess, but her writing is magical, and I can never compare. So, she keeps the characters, the places and her own created world, while I borrow them all every now and then like the pathetic human I am. The plot is all mine though!
> 
> Warnings: off-screen gang-typical violence

He strides down the road with quick, sure steps. Dawdling might be a fine thing for the rest of the common folk out on the streets, but he has places to be, a home to get back to. He knows what he wants, and he knows how to get there.

If things go right, this will be the last time he walks this path.

He hopes he never has to see these flickering street lamps again.

Leaving the life he has set for himself won't be easy—he knows this. He had had his end carved in stone the second he knelt at the Dark Lord's side and pledged his allegiance to the cause of the Death Eaters, and he has regretted it every second since. But maybe, just maybe, he can chip away at the writings, sand out the carvings, and come out of this a new man with a fresh slate. A little broken, sure; a little rougher, true; but all he needs is that chance to change that dark path his life has taken to something better.

And now, he has the perfect anchor. She's a light in the sand for him—there aren't many truths in life he holds to certainty, but he knows that he loves her. She's his beauty, his mind, his freedom, and if he cannot do this for himself, he must do this for her.

He has to protect her.

He takes a right at the next corner. The coffee shop at the bend mocks him once again with its cheerful blinking sign—the Happy Bean, indeed. If only they knew of the many _happy_ things that had come to pass behind their back doors. How many times has he been forced to see the neon blue sign? A hundred? Three hundred? If this is the three-hundredth and first time, it would be three hundred too many. He'll be glad to be rid of its luminescent, overbearing presence for the rest of his life, and hopefully for the eternity of the afterlife as well.

Eight yards past the entrance to the Happy Bean is the mouth of a little alleyway too hidden to be noticed. The alley is covered by the broad trunk of a tree during the brightest of days, and shrouded by shadows in the death of night. It is the perfect place for a hideout, and an even better one for illicit meetings. And the Death Eaters, the largest gang on this side of the city, have never been known for their dismissal of such opportune advantages.

Occasionally—and all too frequently for him—these illicit meetings end in a couple or more deaths. The bodies have never been found.

Still, as long as they think he's on their side, he's offered a silent protection by being part of their ranks. Highly conditional, of course, but protection nonetheless. He'll be sorry to see that protection rescinded when he renounces the cause. He knows, however, that he is well capable of taking care of any… threats.

Book in hand, he takes a deeper-than-usual breath, lets it go, and walks in.

If the worst comes to pass, he still has the knife in his boot and the three vials of poison stashed within the depths of his coat. He is well prepared for danger.

He has quite a way to go before he reaches their rendezvous point; the alley has deceptive depths. Rounding the last dumpster past the back entrance to the Happy Bean, he comes upon the blond he needs to meet.

Lucius leans casually against the grimy cement wall, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. The wall is filthy, but the man is used to worse—dirt is by far the cleanest thing to have touched his leather jacket. His blond hair is in a low, tight bun, making the angles of his jaw razor-edged in its sharpness.

"Severus," Lucius mumbles past the cigarette when he makes his presence known. The blond straightens up reflexively, taking on more forced casualness in his stance. Pale fingers reach up to the cigarette, plucking it between two fingers and reaching behind to stub it out against the wall. The pale wisps of smoke fade, blending into the blackness of the night.

He nods in greeting. Lucius tosses the cigarette to the ground, grinding it flat against the heel of his steel-toed boot.

"What did you call me here for?" Lucius' silky voice crawls over his skin.

If there's one thing he appreciates about the man's special association with him, it's that Lucius Malfoy gets right to the point with him—unlike his saccharine interactions with the others.

"Just you, Lucius?" he responds, getting closer. "Didn't bring the whole posse along this time?"

Lucius smirks. "They have other commitments at this moment."

He breathes an internal sigh of relief, but doesn't let it show. If there's just one of them tonight, it makes the odds against him much lighter.

"Ahh, the Lovegoods," is what he says instead. "Xenophilius defaulted on his payments again?"

"Hmm, too many times now," Lucius responds. The little smile playing along his face is indicative of just how much he plans to enjoy the prospects. "I've heard that his daughter is quite the odd thing. Guess we'll find out."

He raises a brow. "Dealing with the lowbrows yourself, Lucius?" He tuts. "My my, how far you've fallen."

Lucius's sharp features contort for a quick second before the blank mask settles once again. "Our Lord has bestowed me a great honour, Severus. I'm happy to take care of our prisoners. To house and provide for the Dark Lord himself… you'll never understand. But I suppose that the regard he holds for you has nothing against his trust."

"Does it now?" he retorts silkily, pursing his lips in amusement.

"What have you requested this meeting for, Snape?" Lucius asks harshly, now crossing his arms. He smirks in response to the man's show of defence.

"Yes, about that. I'm done."

Lucius frowns, then scoffs. "Explain yourself, man," he says with irritation, "Do you expect me to figure out your complicated puzzles and come to my own conclusions?"

He fights the urge to roll his eyes at the adolescent behaviour. Lucius always was a petty, impatient man. Pride does nothing for the small mind, and Lucius Malfoy is no exception.

"I'm _done,_ " he stresses, "with this arrangement. No, don't show me another display of your stupidity—" he hastens to add when he sees Lucius open his mouth again, "Don't call me, I don't want any contact with you. I'm leaving, Lucius. The mask, the cause, this life. I'm leaving for good, and I'm not coming back."

Lucius' mouth shuts closed with a click.

"Tell the Dark Lord for me," he adds, and Lucius blinks back into awareness again.

"Well," the man finally responds, "that was unexpected."

"So that's an acknowledgement, then," he says, unable to resist the temptation to try the easy way out.

Lucius scoffs again, the sound a hundred times more derisive than the first. "You're a fool to think that's a yes, Severus."

He narrows his eyes. "Last I checked, I wasn't asking for your approval, Lucius. I'm merely informing you of my decision with the expectation that you relay it to Mr Riddle."

Lucius' pale eyebrows rise. "You dare treat our Lord with such blatant disrespect?"

"He's not _my_ Lord anymore, you imbecile," he scathingly retorts, "or have you not registered a word I've said in the past minute?"

"Oh, I've heard you well, Mr Snape," Lucius says, straightening to his full height. The man has a single inch on him, but he is more than gifted in his ability to stare the tallest of men down. Looking down his nose at Lucius is something he is very familiar with.

"Alright then, with that said—"

Lucius smiles, even pearly teeth glinting in the darkness. There's a certain shine to those cold grey eyes, making them look hard as steel. "You don't think you're leaving here alive, do you, Severus? If you weren't before, you certainly are a threat to the cause now. A shame really; our Lord found you useful."

He quirks a brow. "Oh, I'm sure you'll find a use for my death, Lucius. To further yourself up within the ranks, if nothing else. But I must say—quite to the contrary, I do, in fact, believe that I'll be walking out here alive tonight. I'll be going my way, and you'll be going yours, and we'll never have to see each other's faces ever again."

"Is that so?" Lucius purrs. "And what is your guarantee, Severus Snape?"

He smirks. "That you'll be more interested in this deal that I am."

The blond frowns. "I never said a thing about a deal, Severus. Don't go assuming that I'll be interested in agreeing to anything that comes out from your twisted mind."

He chuckles, amused. "And if I'm that twisted, where does that put you?" Lucius stays silent.

He reaches into the folds of his coat, pulling out the book he had stashed in the right side. The black leather front of the book is as nondescript as it gets, but he makes sure the cover stays hidden for the sake of caution. Lucius' grey eyes fall to the little black book with interest.

He feels the side of his mouth lift.

"Here's what you'll be doing, Lucius," he starts, his voice low. Lucius' cold eyes flick to his. "You will wait exactly 24 hours. At this time tomorrow, you'll request for an urgent private meeting with Mr Riddle. You will walk up to him and tell him that I, Severus Snape, haven't been loyal to the cause I had pledged my life to. You'll tell him that I was planning on defecting, that you took care of me and tied up my loose ends right here in this very alley, and that I no longer am in the land of the living. He will praise you for doing the work of the cause, promote you to take my place, and you will never speak of this again."

Lucius looks at him with a smile, a combination of fearful and amused, but the intrigued glint in those steely eyes is undeniable. "A wonderful fantasy, Mr Snape. I certainly appreciate the visuals you've painted for me—some more than others."

He fights another eyeroll. Yes, Lucius' thirst for his blood is _such_ a surprise. He's quaking at the very thought.

"But what makes you think that story sounds remotely believable? Even _if_ I decide to engage your wild ideas, Severus, surely you know that I have no grounds to stand on for our Lord to believe my account of your supposed elimination without due evidence? Our Lord is the farthest from being a fool."

He smirks. "So you're interested, then."

"Never said such a thing."

He hums in amusement, and Lucius breaks his mask once again. "Do you think _I'm_ the fool, Severus? Do you not consider that I have some modicum of self-preservation, unlike you? I will not be party to such foolishness; it will only end in death, and certainly not just yours."

He scoffs. "Give me the credit I'm due, Lucius. I don't put together slapdash plans, you know this."

"Well, you seem to be slipping, man. Unless you have something else up your sleeve, there isn't a possibility on earth where that plan would work."

"I do." He smirks to himself at the hidden truth in his statement—he does have something up his sleeve. The switchblade knife is a possession he takes great pride in, even if he hopes not to use it this time.

"Enlighten me."

He straightens, getting down to business again. "You find this book on my person," he says, holding it up higher teasingly, "You question me. You find that I've stolen it from the other gang, and that I've been holding it as blackmail over them in exchange for their protection from the Death Eaters, requiring an initiation into their ranks. Tomorrow, when you kill me, would have been the day of my initiation."

Lucius narrows his eyes questioningly, but he doesn't offer up more in explanation. "Show me the book," the blond demands, holding one imperious palm out. His nose flares reflexively at the domineering gesture, but he complies.

Lucius grabs the leatherbound book with his filthy hands. The blond thumbs through the pages in the dim light, squinting at the scribbled handwriting. He stops at a particular page one third of the way down to the middle.

"Is this what I think it is?" he asks incredulously.

"It is," he nods.

"The vigilantes? Those Phoenix people?"

"Of course."

Lucius looks down, his lips forming a smile filled with genuine amusement. "So," he murmurs to himself, "the so-called _vigilante_ gang are loan sharks as well, hmm?"

Severus's mouth quirks. "I thought you'd appreciate the irony."

Lucius's eyes flick up to him over the book, but he doesn't otherwise respond. He thumbs through the rest of the pages.

"Let's see—there's the members' log, the codes, the list of debtors, the summary of accounts… where did you get this from, Severus?"

He smiles sharply, and when Lucius looks up this time, those eyes are transfixed on him.

"Do you really want to know?"

Lucius swallows lightly, still staring at him. "No, I suppose not," he murmurs in response, and it takes the man a couple of seconds to glance back at the book.

"How do I know this is the real thing, Severus?" he finally asks, shutting the book with a snap. "I know you—wouldn't put it past you to forge this entire thing."

He sighs in relief at Lucius finally getting to the question he's been waiting to hear. Hell if the man is bad at this—he shouldn't be taking so long to ask such pertinent questions. How Lucius Malfoy ever made it this far in Riddle's ranks, he'll never know.

"Look at the back cover," he sighs again wearily, "and inside, at the last page."

Lucius frowns but checks the back of the book, bringing it up closer to his line of sight.

"Use your fingers," he adds—he doesn't want to wait around forever while the man tries to be functional. "Feel around for the indentations at the bottom."

Pale fingers move around over the leather, a stark white against the black of the cover. The man's forehead creases when he finds the mark, and he dips his hand into the pocket of his trousers in an instant, pulling out a short silver blade which flashes in the grim light. Lucius looks up, grinning evilly, and clicks the pen knife back into its handle with a fluid flick of the wrist and another glint of metal. Twisting it around with deft fingers and a pompous smirk, he switches on the custom made penlight embedded into the handle.

He rolls his eyes for real this time. Honestly, when will the dunderhead realise that he has no time or patience for the man's petty dramatics? He isn't cowed by a single flashy threat; Lucius should know this by now.

Lucius makes short work of examining the Phoenix Order's brand set into the leather, and takes but a few seconds more to examine the last page with its own Phoenix stamp. "Looks authentic," the blond hums in concession. He has to restrain his tongue from spitting out a particularly scathing sentiment.

"The Dark Lord will be pleased with this," Lucius mutters. "He's been looking for dirt on this group for nearly a year now. If I'm to be the one to deliver this prize…"

He smirks. It's only a matter of time…

"You'll be faking your death, Severus?" the blond asks, pocketing the book into his leather jacket. He breathes out in silent relief, knowing that the gesture is as much an outright acceptance as it gets.

"If you play your part well, Lucius, I shouldn't have to."

Lucius' lips thin mockingly. "A lot of trust, Severus, for a man you've always claimed to distrust so vehemently."

He nods in admittance. "It's not you I trust, as much as your motivations."

"Oh?"

"You'll give anything to be recognised by your precious Lord, Lucius. I surmise that you'll do well to keep your position in my stead as secure as possible. Unlike me, you have a lot more to lose than your own pitiful existence. Neither Draco nor Narcissa have much… fight… in them, do they?"

Lucius narrows his eyes. "I should just drag you to the Dark Lord and have you confess then and there."

He smiles—dare he say it—gleefully. "It's your word against mine, Lucius. Who do you think Mr Riddle will believe? You, his disgraced servant? Or me, a trusted intel acquirer? I've brought him his best conquests, Lucius. Do not try to repress that vital piece of information."

Lucius's features twist in anger, but he cuts off the man's snarl before it begins to form. "If you plant that book back on me, I can convince him that I'd been planning to bring it to him before you accosted me—trying to take it for yourself, maybe? Fancy a leg up in the pecking order, don't you?"

Lucius makes a retort. Raising a hand, he tuts the man into silence, feeling his own features soften back into a blank, barely there smirk. "And if you're considering keeping that book for yourself to show him, Lucius, I can convince him that _you're_ the traitor planning to defect. After all, it's like I've said before—you have… so much more to lose than I do."

Lucius quiets.

"The way I see it," he continues in a low tone, "you have two options. You decline this arrangement, and with it your opportunity for promotion, and we both pretend this night never happened. I'll find an alternate solution for myself; one you will not be made privy to. Your other option—take the book, sell this lie, and sell it well. We both win."

The blond's nostrils flare, but the man stays silent for a while. Lucius takes his own sweet time to come to a decision, something that has him on edge. He already knows what Lucius' answer will be—so why is he always doomed to interact with the dawdlers?

He feels the pulse in his forehead throb.

"I take the book," Lucius says at length. "You should lie low for a while, Snape. If the Dark Lord decides to call a search for you, my hands are tied."

He snorts—part in relief, and part in scorn. "Do not tell me what I should do, Lucius. I live to be unpredictable."

The blond closes his eyes and shakes his head minutely. The mere hint of a smile plays along his lips. "All in good faith, old friend," the man murmurs, sounding remarkably genuine for someone who wished death on him mere minutes ago.

He allows himself to smile, marvelling once again at the ephemeral nature of the underworld. Nothing is truly set in stone with these people. Nothing, except the unending lust for money, mutually assured destruction and the permanence of a kill order.

He cannot wait to leave this life behind.

"Lucius?" he looks up, boring holes into exuberant grey eyes, "If I catch even a hint that you have bungled this job with your ineptitude, you won't be the one earning my wrath. And make no mistake, your spouse and your heir will learn well of your mistakes. I will show them no mercy, Mr Malfoy. Not even unto death."

Lucius' pale skin turns paler, showing true fear for the first time since their meeting. "Do not threaten me, Severus," he says, his silky voice bearing the softest undertone of a tremor.

"Oh, I don't threaten, old friend," he responds. "I'm merely informing you of the consequences. Politely."

Lucius' adam's apple bobs. "Understood," the man murmurs.

He reaches into his coat, never breaking gaze. Lucius' cautious eyes flicker to the movements of his hand, but doesn't otherwise show any outright signs of fear. He could almost respect Lucius Malfoy for it. Almost.

Grasping hold of what he needs, he pulls it out from the depths of the lining. The back of his hand brushes against each of the three glass vials resting in his inner pocket. He ignores them.

The bone white Death Eater Mask feels heavy in his hand as he draws it out. The lines around Lucius' eyes relax.

"I had it prepared beforehand," he says as he hands it over—the symbol of his allegiance, the source of his protection, his identity for most of his adult life. "It will lend credence to the story."

Lucius looks confused, but plucks it off his hands silently, studying the mask for imperfections without a word.

It doesn't take him long to notice the light spray of red dotting the right side of the mask. The red looks dark in the dim light, and against the white, the little droplets look blacker than black.

"Blood?" Lucius asks.

It's only fitting, he knows.

"Yes. Mine," he answers shortly. Lucius huffs, gracing him with a wry smile.

"You really took care of everything, didn't you?"

"I told you, Malfoy," he says simply, "I don't make slapdash plans."

"So I see," the blond murmurs. Straightening, he says in his normal voice, "Well then. Take care of yourself, Severus."

He steps away, snorting. "Save the niceties, Malfoy. We both know you don't mean a word of it."

The blond simply smirks.

He turns and walks away, shaking his head. As long as things go well, he'll never have to see the pompous arse again.

The air tastes like freedom. He revels in it. But first—

"And Lucius?"

Malfoy is leaning back against the wall again, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. He freezes in place, the very tip of a cigarette dangling from his fingers.

"This is a mafia, not a cult. I'd suggest you cease snivelling at your Lord's feet with such fervour; it's embarrassing."

And with that, he finally walks round the bend of the alley and walks away, letting the strong gaze on his back trace the path his feet take. He doesn't look back. He doesn't need to.

He did this for her—but a small part of him did it for himself too. And now, he finally knows what freedom feels like.

To him, freedom is turning away from the neon blue glowing sign of the Happy Bean and never looking back.

The night was black before, but now, it is a perfect shade of dark blue.

.o0o.

He's resting in his favourite armchair, sipping at his hot cocoa as he reads his magazine. The air is calm and silent, but he doesn't feel like sitting alone with his thoughts.

He's waiting for her to come home.

He had been sceptical about the teal chair when she had first brought it home, but now it's his favourite thing in the room. The colour took some getting used to, but it's the fluffiest, most comfortable thing he's had the pleasure to relax in. He finds it amusing how reflective it is of their relationship together—she breaks every barrier he's put up for himself, and he loves her for it.

The magazine loses his interest quickly—there's nothing in it that he already doesn't know. He finishes off his mug of cocoa, setting down the magazine on the coffee table and heading into the kitchen to make another. It isn't caffeine or, heaven forbid, alcohol, but the residual bitterness to the taste feels wonderful on his tongue. It is just what he needs.

He goes about making his drink with deft hands, using the pre-made cocoa mix he has blended himself. As he waits for the milk to heat, he lets his eyes wander about the neat kitchen, soaking in the comfort of home seeped into the walls and cabinets. Everything is in its place, the kitchen looking brand new, but his knowing eyes see all the spots and hidden crevices where it looks lived in.

Dark eyes reflect back at him from the polished steel of the saucepan's set-aside lid. The hooked nose looks even larger in the mirrored reflection, a caricature of its true size, and he averts his eyes on reflex at the sight. His gaze settles on a spiderweb in the corner instead, forming through the cracks in the wall. He'll take it down eventually, but the simplicity of watching a spider weave its web does well to calm him in the moment.

When the cocoa is done, he fills his mug and carries it out to the living room again. Three steps of bare feet on soft carpet, and the welcome sound of keys clanking against the lock fills his ears. He changes course, heading for the sofa instead with the barest hint of a smile on his lips.

She's home.

Muffled, indistinct thumps come in from the hallway, and he mentally goes over what each sound comes from. The soft clack of shoes hitting the strip of hardwood between the door and the carpet; the purse and handbag being set on the little nearby table, the clink of keys falling into the bowl. A little sigh, muffled breaths, a warm scarf and coat being removed.

She walks into the living room on bare feet, carrying a single purple grocery bag. Her eyes instantly cut across the room to meet his own. He sees the tense lines of her shoulders relax.

"Hey," she says softly, "Let me just set this on the counter and I'll join you."

He nods, feeling his face soften. "There's hot chocolate on the stove for you. Just heat it up."

She smiles. "Thanks, Severus. That's just what I need."

He watches her pad into the kitchen, settling in more comfortably into the cushions. She takes her time in the kitchen, moving things around even as she waits for her drink to heat—he sees flashes of her movements through the open doorway. Somehow, he cannot muster even a shred of the impatience he had felt the night before when Lucius had made him wait. He knows why. He's made his peace with the knowledge that she will forever be a special case, even to his inherently acerbic nature.

And Hermione never makes him wait for long.

She's the first person who's been able to keep up with him at all times. Their minds are on the same level—always have been—and it had been refreshing to know someone he didn't have to slow down for, back when they had first met. She's… young. Too young for him, some say. Too good for him, he tells himself. But ultimately, he is a selfish man. If she's the only light in his life, he will do all it takes to keep her in it.

And even if he lets her go, he knows that she'll come right back to him. He knows, because he has tried. She always comes back. She always will.

He loves her for it.

Sure enough, she doesn't make him wait for long. She walks through the door on light feet, clutching her crimson and white mug like a lifeline, and he knows that something is wrong.

Still, he waits patiently for her to make her way to him. She settles on the couch by his side, her shoulder digging into his as she twists to tuck her feet up behind her, getting comfortable into the cushions. Her fingers keep their tight hold on the mug's handle, even when he offers to hold it for her. He gives her time to grow used to the silence, focusing on the way her breathing deepens and settles, watching her hands as they cup the warmth of the mug.

"Hermione?" he asks at length.

"I'm okay," she responds softly.

He glances at her profile, noting the way she stares listlessly at the smooth surface of her cocoa. "No, you're not," he decides. "What seems to be troubling you?"

Her lips curve. "Why does 'I'm okay' never work with you?"

"Because it's not the truth."

The curve of her lips widen a fraction before it falls completely. "No, I suppose it isn't." She sighs, swirling her mug with gentle movements, and takes a sip. "I bumped into him today."

"Him?" he questions. "Weasley?"

"Hmm, yes, Ronald. George was there too," she adds, glancing up at him.

He sighs, trying hard to keep his concern at bay. "What did he say?"

"Nothing I haven't heard," she answers, patting his arm reassuringly, "and besides, George was there. He's never as bad around his family."

He would be more worried about what the man had said, but he knows how strong she is. No, it's not Ronald Weasley's undoubtedly imbecilic comments that's bothering her so.

"So, he was civil?" he asks instead.

"Almost like his old self," she responds, staring at her mug again. There's fondness written into the crinkles around her eyes, and he knows that she's reliving past memories. Of the happier times he's heard so much of, when Ronald Weasley was a good man with a good heart, when life and loss hadn't warped him into a duller shade of himself. When the man had loved her, truly loved her.

When her life had been simpler.

Their phase of life hasn't been easy, he knows. Their time together has been tainted by fear and shame and guilt, and he knows that she's had to second-guess herself more in this past year than she has all her life. He's not an easy man to be with. But fighting for their freedom, their choices and decisions and relationship has bonded them closer together, and he's secure in knowing that she truly _is_ happy where they are now. He knows that the mere fondness of old memories will not drive her away from him, and that knowledge makes it so much easier for him to try and offer her comfort.

He sees the exact second her pleasant memories turn darker, knows the second she relives her heartbreak. He has a pitiful repertoire of knowledge when it comes to the matters of the heart—but he knows that he can't bear to see her suffer. He cannot do much, but he can put an arm around her and let her know that she is loved.

It doesn't take him long to coax her back into the present. He tilts the bottom of her mug up to her lips, encouraging her to drink. She doesn't cry—she never does—but he can tell that she wants to. It's been a rough few weeks for both of them; it's no wonder she feels on edge. Work, lately, has been especially hard on her. She's been holding it together marvellously so far.

"They were shopping for rings," she murmurs quietly after a few more sips.

He closes his eyes in realisation. He gets it now, but still, it wouldn't hurt to ask.

"George?"

She gives him a look like she knows what he's doing, which she probably does. " _George_ is already engaged," she says in those same murmured tones, "He told me today. He and Angelina are setting their date soon. He's excited."

"Ahh."

"Yes," she says with a little smile, " _ahh_ , indeed."

"Who's the lucky girl?" he asks after a few beats of silence.

She huffs self-depreciatingly. "I didn't stick around to find out."

He shifts his arm, adjusting his hold on her shoulders. Otherwise, he stays silent.

"He looked happy," she says after a while. "He was smiling. Whoever she is, she must be good for him."

"You're not to blame for how you ended, Hermione," he says to her. "That is something Ronald must answer to, not you. You tried your best."

She smiles, staring straight ahead. "I know that now," she whispers, "We just weren't meant to be. You taught me that, Severus." She turns to catch his gaze, and he stays ready with a smile for her. The horrific attempt at a half-smile which disgusts him so much, but which she adores nonetheless. She taught him that.

She smiles back. "I'm just stunned, I guess," she tries to elaborate. "It's one thing to know that he's moved on, and another to see the result for myself. I still remember how many times he tried to approach me after I ended things, even months after we broke up. He always looked so angry. It's… a shock, I guess, to remember what he used to be like."

"The man who held your affection," he continues for her, nodding.

"That time when it all began," she ends with a sad sigh. "But I have you. So it worked out for the best, didn't it?"

He gives her another of his half-smiles. He doesn't respond, but his mind doesn't miss its chance to play devil's advocate. _Did it?_ his mind says to him vindictively. _Did it really?_

There must be something in his expression, because she knows what he's thinking the second she looks into his eyes. He has successfully guarded himself from the rest of the world, but she's somehow always able to see right through him. He's made his peace with it—it's not just that she has unusually perceptive eyes; it's that she _wants_ to know what's truly on his mind, unlike the others who don't care to know him enough to read him.

He gave up holding onto that indignation at being read like a book more than five months ago, and he hasn't regretted it since.

She narrows her intelligent brown eyes at him, shaking her head vehemently. "No, no, no," she starts, "Whatever you're thinking, Severus, just no."

"I—"

"No," she reiterates fiercely, and he's smart enough to know when to keep silent. "If you think I'm going to break down and weep here, Severus, you're dead wrong. I'm not going to go all 'I know I'm the stupid one who ended it, and now I'm the stupid one regretting it' on you. I _won't._ Because I don't. Regret it. I don't."

He sips at his still-full mug of cocoa. "I know, Hermione."

"I don't regret us, Severus. Not one bit. You know that, right?"

His lips quirk up at the ardour in her words. He reaches up to pat her on the shoulder, but she shrugs off his hand before it settles on her skin, leaning forward to rest her mug on the coffee table before bodily turning herself around to face him.

"Severus," she says, "I chose to be with you. I chose to have a relationship with you, I chose to live with you, and if by some twist of irony Ronald ever decided to come back and ask me to be with him again—and he won't, I saw him today—I'd still choose you. He was my past, Severus. And for a while, he made my past a happy one. But you're my present and my future, and I haven't been happier or more content than I am now. Whatever happens, Severus, I'll still choose you. Because you're mine to choose, and I _want_ to."

He bites at his bottom lip lightly—the only sign of relief she'll ever see—and says dryly, "If I didn't know before, I certainly do now." He glances down at her fingers, amused. "Your grip is crushing my hands."

She frowns, then rolls her eyes, pulling her hands away from his and turning the right way again. She leans forward for her drink then sits back, mug cradled in both hands and her head resting on his shoulder.

"You're impossible," she says, shaking her head fondly. She looks up at him. "You know I'm in love with you, right?"

He smiles softly. "Oh, my dear, you leave no room for doubt."

She smiles herself. "And that's the way it should be," she murmurs quietly before draining her cocoa.

They sit together for a while, breathing in tune to each other. The air is silent, but the room is filled with mementos of their history, and looking around at the few pictures they have of themselves reminds him once again of the leaps their relationship has taken. He's surrounded by memories of his best accomplishments, and holding in his arms the greatest one of all.

"Hey," she pipes up after a while, shifting straighter in her seat, "Where'd you go last night? You were out late. I'd been meaning to ask you this morning but I was running late for work."

His lips don't even twitch. "Just went for a walk. Tried to clear my head. Got lost in my thoughts; I must have taken longer than I was planning to. Did I disturb you?"

She chuckles, "A little, but I didn't mind. You just came to bed later than usual, that's all. I heard the door before you left so I wasn't worried." She shifts again, looking at him fully. "So, is it cleared up now? Whatever's been worrying you lately? Don't think I haven't noticed."

"Yes, I fixed it," he replies with a straight face. "I thought of a solution." _I secured my freedom last night. I did it to protect you. I did it for you._

_I did it because I love you._

"Well, good," she says, smiling, "I'm glad. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to get another cup of cocoa. One isn't enough after the day I've had." She laughs. "I'll tell you all about it, just give me a few minutes."

She gets up, mug in hand, and holds the other hand out to him. "Want a refill?"

"Yes, please."

Her lips twist up, and she silently takes his mug and walks away, heading to the kitchen with sure steps.

He stares at her retreating form till she's out of sight. "You're too good for this world, Hermione Granger," he murmurs to the empty doorway. "But somehow, you chose me."

He doesn't regret last night. A part of him did it for himself, but he did it for her too. And she'll never know, but if she did, he thinks she would be proud of him for it.

The single photograph of his mother rests unobtrusively on the mantle. When he turns its way, she looks to be smiling, and the look on her still face speaks of a story of untold pride.


End file.
